From the silver bun Atop her dainty, thoughtful face To her rhythmic feet Dancing as one On the spinning wheel pedal She enters into the work of creation
She plants seeds of tomorrow As she tends to sheep Grazing in the meadow Others shear them for her Under her watchful eye, I imagine
Raw, washed wool Fills her basket now Lying in bunches It looks like matted clumps of cotton Greyish white With flecks of black From the hay in the meadow The dirt of the soil
She pulls off a piece So light, airy, and soft She cards it Almost a caress with two brushes Working the individual fine strands Until they lie parallel to each other She pulls off some for me to touch I cannot help but stroke fibers There is no itch No irritation It looks like a cirrus cloud Delicate and wispy.
She lines up the carded wool Holds some tension on the gathered strands As the spinning wheel Powered by the choreographed movement of her feet On the treadle Creates its own music and magic The bobbin pulls the fibers forward Twisting, twisting as it goes The fibers are joined now in a strand Friction has created strength No longer individual filaments But retaining the crimp of their natural state They twirl together uniting To create the gift of yarn A gift of warmth, beauty, and love.
Crumbs for the Journey 